I look at her, then at my crotch. She follows my line of sight. When our eyes meet again, her cheeks brighten, but so do her eyes. And then she smiles. And since that’s not kryptonite enough, she bites her lip.
“Are you trying to make it worse?” I grumble.
She pushes up on her toes again, this time to whisper, “Think of the Quatrefoil, Slate. Of all those monsters we faced.”
Her minty breath warms the shell of my ear.
“Better?” She rocks back onto her heels, but not before grazing the edge of my jaw with her pillowy lips.
I shut my eyes, trying desperately to summon up Matthias’s ugly face. If only the others hadn’t been here. I would’ve pushed Cadence against the stacks, or laid her out on the table, and—
She gasps, and I think I may have spoken my dirty designs for her out loud when I realize her attention isn’t on me but on the archival box, which she’s nudged open.
It’s empty.
42
Cadence
“The translations!” I whisper-shout. “The translations are gone!”
Slate’s pupils go from distended to pin-sized, along with his erection.
Yes, my eyes went there. How could they not? But now my eyes are back on the empty beige lining of the box.
For the barest of seconds, I wonder if I might’ve grabbed the wrong one, and my gaze flies to the top shelf, but there aren’t any other boxes.
“Are you sure?” Adrien’s by my side now, peering into the empty container.
It shouldn’t piss me off that he doesn’t believe me, but it does, so I none too gently shove it into his arms. “Check for yourself.”
Slate’s hand lands on my shaking one and envelops my fingers. I don’t pull away. Instead I lean into him until more than our hands touch.
“Do you guys have a logbook down here?” Bastian asks.
“No.” My teeth chatter and not from the cold. Although it isreallycold. “Why would someone t-take them?”
Slate squeezes my hand, then lets go and grips my hip, dragging me into him. Adrien’s gaze flicks off the box to the point of contact between Slate’s protective, possessive fingers and the waistband of my gray leggings.
“Could they have been misplaced?” Bastian suggests.
I look around the small, sterile room. “I d-don’t think so. I mean, there were close to a hundred sheets in there. That’s a lot of p-paper to misplace.” Slate’s thumb slides beneath the hem of my sweater and sets on my chilled skin, then starts small, slow strokes.
“When did you see them last?” Adrien’s voice is as harsh as the lighting.
I have to rack my brain. Did I pull the box down the day I showed SlateIstor Breou? No. I’d thought about it but hadn’t trusted him enough. Feeling a groove form between my eyebrows, I say, “The last time I looked at them was with your mother, Adrien. I was helping her type them.” It feels like yesterday and yet four years have passed.
Alma spins on a stool. “How many people have access to this room?”
“Not many. Adrien, Papa, me, and one of the librarians. But Papa never comes here. Because. You know, his wheelchair.”
Adrien sets the empty box on the table.
“When was the last time you looked at them, Prof?” Slate’s thumb is still moving, still coaxing goose bumps from my skin.
“Not since my thesis two years ago.” One of his eyes closes a little as though he’s remembering something.
“What?” I ask.
